Strigoi

by Tony-Paul de Vissage

  “Have that re-tempered.” He thrust the sword into Andrei’s hands, and waved the others aside, ignoring the physician’s attempts to examine his wounds. “Don’t touch me. They’ll heal.”

  Marek rushed up the stairs to his bedchamber, slamming the door and bolting it. Tearing at his clothing, he flung them into the fire, and threw himself onto his back on the bed, lying motionless.

  As still as the corpses in the courtyard.

  He stared up at the canopy, its draperies as dark and enclosing as the void in the Prince’s chamber.

  I’m János Strigoi’s son, ghidaj of Casa Strigoi.

  He refused to let the emotion boiling inside him escape.

  No tears. Never.

  He was the new tiaetor and his life had to be lived as his father’s had been, with his pain well-hidden.

  The next night, though the images of the previous evening still rested heavily upon him, he had another duty to perform, one the Domnitor’s words had given urgency. After speaking briefly with Sabine concerning what he planned, he sent for his younger brothers. Wondering what they’d done to merit this summons, the twins appeared soon enough, and Marek looked at the two with more than a little dismay.

  By the gods, they’ve grown so. They’re inches taller than they were mere weeks ago.

  “Two things have happened demanding my speaking with you…” he began.

  Vlad exchanged an anxious glance with Andrei.

  “The first concerns those statements you two made about females.”

  “It was only talk,” Vlad interrupted. He looked at his twin. “Should I tell him?”

  “I suppose so. You’ve already said too much as it is.” Andrei turned his attention to his elder brother. “It’s as he says, Marek. We’ve done nothing. We’re still…”

  “We’re still virgins,” Vlad finished for him.

  “That eases my mind somewhat.” Marek couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Although it does bring me to the reason for my first armate from the Domnitor.”

  “What does that have to do with us?” Andrei demanded, startled.

  “This is something I’m sure Father would’ve shared with you two at the proper time.”

  Though he didn’t with me.

  “The gods know I never thought I’d be the one.” He fixed each twin with a stern stare. “You swear you haven’t mounted any female, either aventurieri or deomi?”

  “Brother…” As if expecting a reprimand, Andrei reminded him timidly, “We’re only eight.”

  “Then listen to what I say and heed it before you get any older.” Marek explained about Iancu Rodica and his iubita and his carrying out of his first armate.

  By the time he finished, Vlad’s pale cheeks were even more pallid.

  “Gods, Marek, does that mean we have to give up any female who’s deomi?”

  “Not necessarily, but you’d better not put anything inside one that’s going to grow, if you want to keep your head on your shoulders.” He looked so serious the twins were shaken. “I’d hate to serve an armate on my own brother, Vlad, but if the Domnitor commands it, I’ll have no choice. I doubt the excuse of your youth would deter him.”

  “Don’t worry. Whenever I have my first woman, I’ll be careful,” Vlad assured him, earnestly. “More than careful. I’m going to practice—what was that phrase Sabine used when he was telling us about females?” He looked at Andrei.

  “Onanism,” his twin supplied.

  “That’s right. Slightly dissatisfying and fairly messy, but better than dying.” He turned to Marek again. “Do you know, humans consider that an abomination? They actually think their God’ll strike them dead if they do it.”

  “Perhaps that’s why there are so many of them,” Marek answered. “You won’t have to do that. I’ll give you some lambskins. For you, too, Andri, until you can secure your own.”

  Reaching into an inner pocket, he extracted a pair of tube-like objects fitted around two sanded and varnished wooden dowels to retain their shape. He’d gotten them from Sabine when he spoke to him earlier.

  “I don’t want to know when you use them. Though I suspect, at the rate you two are maturing, it may be sooner than I wish.”

  Gingerly, the twins took the condoms, turning them over and examining them. Vlad started to say something only to have Marek interrupt.

  “If you need instruction, see Sabine. You say he spoke to you about females?”

  The two nodded.

  “It was good of him to take over that chore. Just remember: before you wrap any human female around your cock, wrap that around it first.”

  Mouth open in shock, Vlad looked at the condom grasped in his fist. His blue eyes were very wide, the still-childish innocence in them at odds with the object in his hand.

  “Now, go.” Marek made shooing motions. Of a sudden he couldn’t bear to look at either of them. It made his heart ache. “I’ve more important things to do than lecture my little brothers on dealings with the fair sex. Get on about your business.”

  It relieved him to see how fast they departed, as much as it saddened him.

  How long will it be before they need those things?

  He couldn’t keep invisible watch on their bedchambers forever.

  * * *

  Twice more that year Marek was called upon to do the Domnitor’s bidding. Both times, the accused were unrepentant, sneering at the armate as well as the youth and inexperience of the new taietor. One was actually laughing as Marek’ sword sent his head flying from his shoulders.

  He shed tears for neither.

  Chapter 10

  Castel Strigoi, 1806

  Thirteen years had passed since his family’s murders, since Marek obeyed his Prince’s command to cease his search for Mircea Ravagui, and began his service as taietor.

  Settling into being ghidaj was easier than he expected, though the person he became was very different from the light-hearted but studious young bursier who returned home to such pain and grief. All joy now fled his life, smiles and humor rare. Most lay the change in his manner to his responsibilities. No one could know whenever the Domnitor called, it was another wound in Marek’s heart.

  He lost count of the times he’d been summoned, of the men he’d faced—arrogant, foolish, frightened—or how often he returned to his prince with a gruesome trophy’s blood staining his boots. Through bitter experience he became a more skilled swordsman than János had ever been and a better killer, but he wanted no accolades. Looking at the blood dripping from the severed head, and forming a puddle under his feet, he would wait for the steward to take it away, so he could once more be free to seek refuge in his castel.

  With every death, he still spoke the words hastening their souls to the After, but he no longer meant them. Those were for comfort, and there was none of that for Marek. His soul was now as dead as his victims, but if they rested in blessed peace, he inhabited his own Hell.

  When the twins reached the age of thirteen, he sent them to the Scholomance as he himself had gone, not telling anyone they were already halfway through their aberatie. Mentally, they were still children starting the journey of life their bodies were already close to reaching. They had been back at Castel Strigoi a few months now, and at last their Intrare, their official emergence into adulthood, five years after the fact, was to be celebrated along with their graduation…

  Chapter 11

  The master of Casa Strigoi lay wrapped in Sleep’s merciless clutches.

  “Master?” Through the door Sabine’s voice intruded, pulling him to the surface of a nightmare-thrashed darkness.

  “What is it?” Marek awoke gratefully. His sleep hadn’t been peaceful since the moment his sword pierced that deomi female’s heart. He neither entered nor escaped it with ease.

  “The tailor’s here with your clothes.”

  Tailor? Clothes? Then he remembered. The twins’ banchet.

  “A moment.” He forced himself out of bed.

  Gods, what a miasma
of terror my dreams have been.

  It was a relief to be conscious again. He staggered as he gathered up the garments lying about the room and hastily pulled them on…shirt, breeches, robe…stepping into soft house slippers.

  In spite of his recent plunge into a blacker-than-usual mood, Marek refused to allow it to spoil this time for his brothers. He was agreeable to having a feast bordering on a royal banquet and wasn’t averse to inviting all his family’s friends and relatives, but he continued to maintain new clothes weren’t necessary.

  As far as he was concerned, the robes he’d worn as a student and continued to wear as ghidaj were good enough for his brothers’ intrare banchet. They were soft and comfortable and familiar. Wearing them made him feel better, childish as that was.

  It had taken quite a bit of persuasion on the twins’ part to get him to agree to having at least one set of new garments made for the occasion.

  How will it look to your clansmen? The ghidaj of Clan Strigoi clad in the threadbare robes of a student?

  Under their barrage of reasons, Marek relented.

  “Where is he?” Grumbling, he opened the door.

  Sabine entered, and Marek threw himself into a chair, looking sullenly at the doctor who stopped in the doorway.

  “Waiting below.”

  “Well?” He made an impatient gesture. “Have him come up and let’s get this over with.”

  Bowing, Sabine backed out of the room. Once in the hall, he hurried to the top of the staircase beckoning to the tailor and leading the man, arms laden with at least half a dozen garments, into the presence of his master.

  The tailor spread his creations upon the bed. Marek forced himself out of his chair and walked over, giving them a cursory glance.

  “They’ll do.”

  “My lord,” Sabine softened his voice from reprimand to suggestion. “You need to try them on.”

  Marek gave him a blank stare.

  “To make certain they fit?” the doctor prompted.

  Though the ghidaj’s behavior worried him, he had stopped trying to determine its cause. Any attempt to question Marek, even subtly, brought on a fit of temper making the castel’s walls tremble. That in itself was unusual, for even as a youngster the master had been of an exceedingly mild disposition…remarkably mild, considering how Lady Konstancza treated him.

  With deliberate exaggeration, Marek pulled off his robe, folding and placing it on the bed beside the new one. His shirt and other garments followed with as much precise care, until he stood with fists on his hips, glaring at his naked reflection in the nearby cheval glass.

  With a physician’s detachment Sabine studied Marek’s body, thinking that in spite of the dark hair covering his chest and groin, his master had no reason to glower so at the image in the mirror. The ghidaj was tall and well-formed, with muscles in all the right places, broad chest and shoulders, long sturdy legs, and—here Sabine allowed himself a slight smile and more than a little envy—a member any female would beg to have inside her.

  If the master ever decides to look at a female. Perhaps if he rid himself of some of the humors building within his body, he might rest better and not require those sleeping draughts rapidly becoming stronger and stronger. Sabine worried over Marek’s seeming lack of desire for a female, though he knew he was singlemindedly ignoring anything not pertaining to his siblings, once his pursuit of Ravagiu wasterminated by the prince.

  “My lord?” the tailor began timidly.

  “What?” he snapped at the little man.

  “Your slippers, sir?” The tailor gestured at his feet.

  Marek looked down, then kicked them off, sending each to a different part of the room.

  When this is over, he’ll have the vanjosi hunting for them, and that’ll be a minor uproar until they’re found, Sabine thought glumly.

  Marek reeled and caught at the mirror for support.

  “Are you all right?” Sabine placed a hand on his arm.

  “Of course, I’m all right.” Marek shrugged out of his grasp. “I merely lost my balance getting those damned slippers off, that’s all.” He turned his attention to the tailor. “All right, Jacza, let’s get this over with.”

  Nodding, the tailor held out a pair of finely-knit stockings. Inspecting them, Marek settled on the bed to put them on. The trousers were offered next, pulled on and buttoned with a slight snarl and a grunt.

  “They’re too tight.”

  “Oh no, sir.” Jacza was earnest. “I was very careful with the measurements. They fit your waist, and…uh…nethers exactly.”

  And a fine waist it is, too, Sabine thought. Slim and taut.

  Without being obvious about it, he patted his own belly, feeling fat and overweight in comparison.

  “Anything’s going to feel tight after those old robes you live in, master,” he remarked. “After all, there’s room enough for three people inside one of the things.”

  All that earned him was another grunt.

  “Are you certain you feel all right?” He took a step closer and brushed the back of his hand across Marek’s forehead. “You’re slightly flushed. Your skin actually has some color to it. I think you may have a fever.”

  He hoped he knew what that fever might represent. The beginning of sânge dirijare.

  About time, too. He didn’t dare say it aloud.

  Just as an aventurieri female’s reproductive courses ran in cycles, the male urges, while always present, also followed recognizable patterns at which virility and fertility were at their highest point. As far as Sabine was aware, his master had never experienced the seige cycle at all, not even during his intrare, and now in spite of having reached the True Age of thirty-seven, not once since his return home had he asked for a woman other than to take her blood.

  Oh yes, I believe this’ll be the night when the master’s blood runs high and will definitely be something he can’t brush aside.

  “Nonsense.” Marek backed away from the doctor’s hand. “Tonight’s my brothers’ intrare feast. I’m going to meet friends and clansmen I haven’t seen in a decade, and there’s going to be plenty of good food and drink. I’m simply excited, nothing more. Will you please stop fussing, Sabine, and let me get this over with?”

  He took the shirt from Jacza, giving a raised eyebrow to the lace on the collar and cuffs, and practically threw it on. When the old man would’ve wound the snowy neckcloth with its layers of ruffles around the banded collar, Marek backed away, shaking his head.

  “No. None of that fetita.”

  All the while, Sabine watched him closely, though he remained silent. His thoughts, however, were very busy.

  Perhaps he’s simply relieving himself in private. Still, I’m certain none of the washerwomen have asked permission to burn his bedclothes since the Oracle commands spilled seed must be destroyed by fire.

  Disappointed, the tailor let the neckcloth hang untied and held up the outer robe. Marek slid it on. He studied his image as Jacza picked at the sleeves, pushing a tuck here, smoothing a wrinkle there, while extolling the virtues of the garment.

  “Notice the ruby cabochons on the yoke, sir, and the gold latticework on the sleeves. It’s most fashionable at the Hungarian court this year, I’m told.”

  Marek studied himself in the mirror, seeing a tricked-out Dandy in a burgundy velvet robe studded with red stones, lace falling out of the neck opening and the sleeves. He nearly laughed out loud.

  He had no use for rubies, cabochon or otherwise, and as for gold latticework?

  Bah!

  He longed for his comfortable student’s robes, as threadbare as they were, where a man might wear nothing underneath and let his privates breathe, instead of bunching them into these tight trousers which must surely have been originally intended as a torture device. In truth, he felt so constricted, he wondered if he would soon be speaking in a much higher pitch.

  He was about to say he didn’t give a damn what the Hungarians wore, and also where they could put their gems and sl
eeve decorations when he saw Sabine’s reflection frowning at him from the mirror and shaking its head.

  “It’s fine.” He threw the compliment over his shoulder.

  The tailor bowed, gratified.

  “However…”

  The door was thrown open and a young girl dashed in, pursued by Ilona, now promoted from wetnurse to nursemaid and looking out of breath and very harried.

  “Marek. Marek!” Ruxanda threw herself at him.

  Marek caught her, hugging her.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Ilona bobbed a curtsey. “I tried to stop her.”

  “It’s all right.” Marek cut short her apology. “We’re finished here. Aren’t we?”

  He gave the doctor and the tailor threatening stares, then softened again as he looked at his little sister.

  “You should knock before you come dashing into my rooms, Xandi. A few minutes earlier, and you’d have caught your big brother in the altogether.”

  “Oh, sir.” Ilona blushed enough for both herself and Ruxanda, who thought that extremely funny and giggled instead.

  Bowing, the tailor hastily departed. Dr. Sabine stayed where he was.

  Ignoring him, Marek asked, “To what do I owe this visit from my dear little sister?”

  “I want to go to the party with you tonight,” Ruxanda announced, seizing one of the straight locks hanging over his shoulder and winding it around her finger.

  “Xandi.” He pulled it out of her hand. “I’ve explained to you. This isn’t a party, it’s a celebration of your brothers’ intrare, and females aren’t allowed.”

  “There’ll be girls there,” she argued. “The gardi are bringing them in now.” She traced a fingertip along the edge of his lower lip.

  “Those girls will be there as companions for our guests,” Marek replied, turning his head to escape her fingers. “Will you stop that?”

  “Andrei says they’re whores. What’s a whore?”

  “Never you mind.”

  I’ll have to talk to the twins about speaking so openly before their little sister. Not the first time he’d done so lately, and probably not the last, though he continued to hope.